


A Strange Quest

by Tea_For_One_Please



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: AU, Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Endgame Byler, Endgame Jancy, Endgame Jopper, Endgame Lumax, F/M, Fantasy, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Mutual Pining, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, POV Alternating, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-22 11:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21301436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea_For_One_Please/pseuds/Tea_For_One_Please
Summary: When Will, the page of a young knight, Sir Michael, goes missing, a small, unassuming village is thrown into chaos, and a world it never knew existed outside of its walls...********This is my take on how the story of Stranger Things might go in the style of one of the Party's campaigns. As a disclaimer, I've only played D&D once, so it's not going to be exactly like it, but I've based the storytelling on what we see of Mike's campaigns, and I hope it's true to that kind of style!The endgame ships are listed in the tags, but to those who like the ones that aren't endgame, they get lots of sweet moments too throughout the story beforehand.
Relationships: Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler, Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler, Joyce Byers/Bob Newby, Joyce Byers/Jim "Chief" Hopper, Maxine "Max" Mayfield/Lucas Sinclair, Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler
Comments: 9
Kudos: 25





	A Strange Quest

**Author's Note:**

> Just to say, this is going to be a looooooong project, both in word count and time.
> 
> *cough* not least because I already have several other WIPs *cough*
> 
> But enjoy! I've had a blast writing this, and have full intention to see it through to completion!

A frightened shout echoes across the courtyard, drowned out by a clap of thunder rumbling across the sky. The cry goes up once more, and a flash of lightning illuminates the stark towers of the bleak fortress. On the lookout tower, a large flaming torch starts to glow across the countryside.

“We’re under attack!” The watchman’s panicked yell resounds through Fort Awisolartry, and torches start being lit across the castle. “Arm your weapons! Rouse the King! The Beast is loose!”

Down in the central courtyard, two soldiers share a nervous look as the stones beneath their feet start to tremble. A deafening roar jolts them into action, as two sturdy wooden doors are blown off their hinges, breaking into smithereens as if blasted with a cannon. The two soldiers freeze in terror as they behold the Beast that was spoken, before starting to back slowly away from it, as though careful movements will deter its insatiable lust for blood.

Someone shouts, “Fire!” and two dozen crossbow bolts whizz through the air towards the Creature. It roars in anger as several bolts pierce its scaly skin. “Watch out! Fireballs!” Small catapults blast their flaming missiles through the air, but the limited space and poor aiming ability renders them useless, and they come crashing down on the opposite side of the courtyard. The Beast hesitates no longer, stretching out a long limb towards one of the soldiers. It tightens its grip, and the soldier screams in pain as its razor-sharp fingers pierce his skin, lifting him into the air towards its enormous mouth.

The second soldier flees, hearing only the final cries of his companion and the nauseating tearing of flesh as the Beast rips off its prey’s head. He runs faster, unable to bear the horrible crunching of bone from behind him. Once again, he hears the thud of the Creature’s enormous footsteps, increasing in speed and growing louder. He breaks into a full sprint, but to no avail. He hears the Beast’s screeching howl and lets out a cry of anguish. Dizzy with pain, he looks down in horror at the Creature’s finger, running him through and protruding from his chest. Blood pours from the wound, pooling in the cobbles and shimmering gently as another bolt of lightning tears across the night sky. He feels his feet leave the ground, and then the world goes black.

Unnoticed amid the turmoil, a child dressed in rags slips out of the shattered dungeon door, sidling along the grey stone walls until she reaches the castle entrance. With a twitch of her head it starts to rattle, the chains lowering the massive gate, bridging the gap over the moat, connecting the outside world with the only world she’s ever known. She takes one last look back, swallows hard, and walks firmly across the drawbridge into the unknown.

Darkness is falling across the kingdom, and lamps are starting to be lit across the small town of Kinshaw. A mile from the town’s western gate sprawls the Wheeler estate, the castle and grounds renowned across the region for its wealthy family and lavish social occasions. On the edge of the north garden sits an ancient oak tree, surrounded by a thick privet hedge and tall grass, largely left untended. Some of the grass, however, has been deliberately squashed down, and a small hole has been formed in the edge by four boys passing frequently through to their secret hideaway.

Will jumps. “I’m late!”

“No, you’re not,” Lucas says, puzzled. “They haven’t rung the gong yet.” He’s barely finished his sentence when they hear a loud chime from the direction of the castle. “Oh, maybe you are.”

“We’re all late,” says Dustin carelessly. “I have to be ready to play for the family over dinner.”

“Stay awhile,” Mike says, leaning back against the oak and casting his dice onto the ground once more. “I sincerely doubt anyone will notice if we’re not there on time.”

“They may not notice if you’re gone,” Will agrees. “But as your page, if I’m not ready to dress you for dinner, there’ll be hell to pay. See you later, guys.” He brushes himself off, disappears through the small hole in the hedge and starts a smart half-jog back to the castle. Lucas idly tosses his dice and curses at the poor result.

“My luck is awful today.”

“I think you’re just bad at this game,” Dustin says with a smirk.

“Bite me,” Lucas snaps, glancing at Mike, who normally intervenes in their squabbles. However, he’s no longer paying attention, but is looking over at the hedge where Will just disappeared.

“Well, if he’s gone,” Mike says gloomily, “perhaps I should too.” He rises and claps the other two on the back. “Farewell.”

“Farewell,” Lucas echoes, lips trembling with the effort not to laugh: even after years of friendship, he, Dustin and Will are constantly amused by how Mike always slips back into the elegant language he’s been programmed to speak by his upbringing, even when he’s alone with them.

“Oh, give over,” Mike mutters good-naturedly, and ducks through the hole in the hedge. He strolls casually across the grounds, taking advantage of the dark and cutting across the lawns to save a little time.

He’s not exactly in a hurry to get to dinner. It’s always an awkward affair, due to the strained relationship between his parents. Of course, he never sees their arguments – no one does. It’s difficult to have much of a private life when you spend most of your life in the company of servants, but he realises that’s a grievance that most people would kill to have. Kinshaw isn’t dreadfully poor by most standards, but as he grows older and more mature, Mike finds himself reflecting more and more on the injustice of the privilege he holds. It’s one of the reasons he is glad of the company of the three servant boys whom he calls his best friends. His only friends, really.

He sees Will the most, and considers him to be his closest friend. This, he thinks, is probably an unsurprising consequence of Will being his page – when one spends as much time with someone and conducts some of the most intimate daily procedures with them, one tends to have fewer secrets.

It helps that Will is an excellent chameleon: when around other servants, or any other member of the court, he’s William, and he maintains the illusion that he and Sir Michael (never Mike) have a purely professional relationship. A polite bow of the head as a greeting and farewell is the friendliest Will can be in public. He delivers messages from around the court directly and formally. When Mike is thinking aloud as he often does, even on state visits, Will’s calm intonation of “Indeed, sir,” is the most he says, even when Mike is making absolutely no sense. As far as Mike has seen, the closest Will has come to losing control in public is a slight upward twitch at the corner of his mouth when Mike stepped on the train of his sister’s gown, causing her to stumble.

When they’re alone, though, it’s a rather different story. Although still quiet, he becomes far less reserved, perfectly willing to laugh about the events of the day, or tell Mike he’s being an idiot (he’s usually right). He’s very expressive, often gleefully recounting how the kitchen maid mixed up the salt and the sugar when preparing the desserts, or some such anecdote. Mike loves his company, and lives for the moments when he can leave the watchful, judging eyes of parents and siblings and courtiers to retreat to his bedroom and put the world to rights with Will.

He pushes open the great front doors and makes his way up the staircase to his bedroom. Upon entering, he sees Will, dressed in his black evening tunic with brass buttons, laying out Mike’s own evening clothes, and a maid kneeling on the hearth, mending the fire.

“Sir Michael,” Will says, quiet and polite as ever. The maid jumps in panic, and Will’s eyebrows furrow for an instant, anticipating a scene.

“Sir Michael, I’m so sorry,” she gasps, “I meant to have finished by the time you came up.”

“It isn’t a problem,” Mike says hastily, but she’s already gathering up her tools. A quick curtsy and she’s gone. “Well, that was dramatic,” Mike muses.

“Practically a fistfight,” Will says drily, and Mike knows they’re alone. He grins and flops down on his bed.

“Are we entertaining tonight?” he asks, idly flicking the tassels on his bed-curtains.

“I believe Sir Stephen of Harrington is joining your family for dinner,” Will says. “Ready when you are.” Mike groans as he heaves himself onto his feet again and starts unbuttoning his tunic.

“It had to be him, didn’t it?” he grumbles. “Why is he here again?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Will says, but something in his voice betrays him, and Mike turns to look at him.

“Will, do you know something?”

“Nothing concrete,” Will says hastily, “but there’s plenty of talk in the servants’ hall.”

“I don’t doubt it,” says Mike wryly. “What’s being said?”

“There are whispers,” Will continues, as he helps Mike shrug off the tunic, “that he has come to ask Lord Wheeler for Lady Nancy’s hand.”

“Well, I never,” Mike muses. “I thought he never would.”

“Indeed,” Will says.

“Shame,” Mike sighs, and Will gives him a questioning look. “It means Mother and Father will start plotting my betrothal.”

“You are only fourteen,” Will points out, helping Mike into his evening tunic.

“Oh, planning weddings is the only amusement to be had by my parents’ sort of people.”

“It must be a hard life,” Will remarks, and Mike feels ashamed. He knows his life is significantly easier than that of the likes of Will, but forgets sometimes.

“Forgive me, that was thoughtless.”

“Think nothing of it,” Will says, fixing golden brocade to the shoulders with a smile. “I was only joking.” Mike smiles apologetically.

“I appreciate having guests, though. It means my parents don’t spend the entire evening making stilted conversation to keep up the appearance of their happy marriage.” He holds up an arm so that Will can strap his sword-holder to his shoulder.

“Is it no better?”

“Worse,” says Mike bitterly. “I hope if I ever get married, it isn’t like that.” Will says nothing, so Mike continues. “But I daresay you’ll see for yourself. You’re coming down tonight, I think?”

Will shakes his head. “I’m not working tonight, remember? As soon as you enter the dining room, I’m finished for the night.”

“Oh, of course,” Mike says; he’d forgotten he gave Will the night off.

“Don’t worry,” Will says with a smile, anticipating the next question. “I’ll leave your nightshirt out, and be back first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Mike says, a little embarrassed, but he quickly sees that Will is not laughing at him. “I know I don’t say this enough, but I don’t know how I’d manage without you.” Will rolls his eyes fondly.

“Awfully, I imagine. Now hurry up and put these pants on, or you’ll be even later.” Mike complies, and Will kneels down to shine his shoes, brushes Mike’s tunic and brocade, then takes a step back to examine him. “You’ll do,” he says. “Off you go.”

“Enjoy your evening off,” Mike says. “Good night.”

“See you tomorrow,” Will says.

Mike closes the door behind him, and descends the stairs towards the dining room. His parents and sisters are already seated, and his father frowns as he enters.

“You’re late, Michael,” he says disapprovingly.

“I’m sorry, father. I was out in the grounds and I lost track of time.” Across the table, Nancy rolls her eyes. Mike catches Dustin’s eye and offers a half-smile; from across the room, Dustin plucks a delicate major chord on his lute and grins back, before subsiding at the glare that Lucas gives him on his way past with a tray of soup.

“What were you doing?” his mother asks.

“I took a walk,” Mike says; a half-truth of sorts. “Just around the village.” (There’s the other half.)

“We’ve warned you about that,” she says, concerned. “It isn’t like the villagers dislike us, but you never know how they’ll react to a young heir wandering around by himself.”

“Yes, it would be tragic if something were to happen to the heir,” Nancy says, smiling venomously.

“That isn’t funny,” her father says. “You’d be very sad if something happened to Michael.”

“Devastated,” she mutters.

“That’s enough,” their mother chides, mouthing _not in front of the servants_ to her daughter. Nancy raises her hands in surrender and turns her attention to the soup in front of her. Mike bites his lip as the table lapses into a momentary uncomfortable silence, until his mother speaks again. “Did you make arrangements for investing in that new trade agreement?”

“Not yet,” her husband says. “Jonathan, where did we leave it in the meeting?”

“I’m just finding the notes, my lord.” The older boy standing off to the side of the room steps forward, flicking through his various sheets of parchment. “Ah, here it is.” He begins to read, and Mike’s interest evaporates. He momentarily envies Will, wondering what he would be doing with his time off.

Up in the bedroom, Will collects the clothes Mike has taken off to take to the laundry and lays out his nightwear neatly on the bed. He counts Mike’s undergarments to make sure there are enough and pokes the fire to keep it going until Mike returns. He checks the bathroom and makes a mental note to fetch a new bar of soap for the morning. This done, he stops at the door on the way out to give the room a final once-over; satisfied, he closes the door and heads down the servants’ staircase to the laundry. Almost finished, he changes out of his work tunic in favour of a loose shirt and poncho, hanging up the tunic; he’ll deal with it tomorrow. With almost everyone else serving in the dining room, he wishes the cook and kitchen maid a good night, and slips out of the back door.

Will takes a deep breath of the fresh night air and starts the half-mile walk back to the village. His time off is almost entirely dependent on when Mike remembers to give it to him: regardless of how close he’s become with Mike, he still feels uncomfortable asking for things, especially free nights. Now, though, he has a spring in his step, as he’s going home to see his mother for the first time in about two weeks. She’ll be waiting at the window, he’s fairly sure of it.

He's almost home when he passes the Hawk Inn, a popular public house and coaching inn on the outskirts of town. Will’s never been inside, but he’s passed it enough times to know that it’s unusual for someone to be climbing in through the window. He peers around a tree and sees a figure moving around in the dark. Logically, whoever it is, if they were meant to be there, they’d have lit a lamp. He watches for a little longer, until the figure climbs back out of the window, hauling a gently clinking sack over their shoulder.

“Hey!” Will surprises himself with the force of his shout, and the figure snaps their head around to face him. A black mask with a long beak-like protrusion stares him down from across the road, and Will realises whom he’s dealing with – the notorious cat-burglar, the Raven. Will is just deciding whether to shout, chase or flee when the Raven turns away and takes off into the trees. “Come back!” Will calls. “Stop thief!” Lamps start lighting up in the inn’s upper rooms, but the thief keeps running, and Will gives chase. He quickly loses them, and also realises he’s completely lost his way. He turns around and starts walking in the general direction he came from, hoping to find the road again: if he finds the road, he can find the inn. If he finds the inn, he can find the route back into town.

He’s only been walking a few minutes when he sees it. The Creature. Not fully, but sort of imagines it. It happens sometimes: he guesses what will happen before it does. He just gets lucky, he supposes, like with the gong earlier that evening. He whirls around and spots a hazy shadow through the falling fog. Will freezes, just for a moment, before turning and breaking into a sprint. The mist seems to be growing thicker, and he’s struggling to see. He should have found the road by now. Why can’t he find his way?

He thinks he sees someone else peeping around a tree, but by the time he reaches it, there’s no one there. He runs a little further, spotting a light in the distance. His mouth is dry by now, and a cramp is tearing into his side, but he doggedly keeps going toward the light. He finds a cast-iron lamp post, its flame flickering in its little glass house at the pole’s summit. He leans against the post, breathing hard. He knows he’s fully visible, but he doesn’t care. In his mind’s eye he can see what’s about to happen, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He can’t run another yard, so he slumps down onto the ground. The echo of a harsh groaning sound, interjected by clicks and a low screech, bounces between the trees around him. Will closes his eyes and waits for the Creature to find him.

Ten minutes later, a small wagon towards the lamp post, towed by a horse. The farmer flicks the reins and shivers a little as they pass by. There’s no mist. No monster. No strange clicking sound. And no frightened young boy curled up at the base of the lamp post.

“Hey, Jonathan?” Joyce looks up from the breakfast table as her son comes in. She’s poring over her old notebook of recipes, and Jonathan can practically see the sadness in her eyes. “I thought you said Will was coming home last night?”

“I thought he was,” Jonathan shrugs. “I guess Sir Michael forgot he gave him the night off.”

“I don’t know about that family,” Joyce sighs. “All that money, but no real humanity.”

“That’s not completely fair,” Jonathan says, hacking off a slice of bread from the loaf on the countertop. “They’re not bad people.”

“Perhaps not,” she says wryly. “But how self-absorbed must you be to forget you’ve given a servant his first free evening in two weeks?”

“They have their own problems,” Jonathan says. As the court scribe and painter, he sees more than most servants, and Lord Wheeler often grumbles to him while he’s working. His mother snorts.

“I suppose they never have to worry about going hungry,” she remarks, standing up to flip her sand timer. Once more through, then the batch of loaves will be done.

“True,” sighs Jonathan, “but then again, with mine and Will’s pay, plus your bread business, we rarely do.” She hums an affirmative and throws her dishcloth over her shoulder. “I should go,” he adds, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek.

“Love you,” she says. “See you tonight. Oh, and if you see Will, tell him to send a message if he can’t make it next time, will you?”  
“I will,” he says, fastening his travelling cloak and picking up his walking staff. “Bye.” She waves him off from the door and closes it once he’s out of sight.

As she’s pulling the various loaves of bread from the oven, Joyce can’t shift the niggling feeling in the back of her mind that something isn’t right. It’s been there since Will didn’t appear last night. She waited for him, even cancelled a visit to a friend to see him, but he never showed. She made him dinner, but it sat on the table going cold until Jonathan returned and ate it instead. It’s unlike him: it’s not the first time Sir Michael has forgotten that he’s given Will the night off, but when that happens, he normally sends a message to let her know.

She’s distracted all morning, as her customers come from across the village to collect their daily orders. She knows them all by heart, of course, in a daze, merely nodding vaguely when they ask her how she is. When the last one has been and gone, she closes up the little shop for the day and lets her fires burn out. She’s made up her mind.

She wraps her own travelling cloak around her, and goes into the stable to saddle up Chester to the cart they keep there, before guiding the old horse outside and setting off towards the Wheeler estate. It’s a route she could travel blindfolded, as she was a housemaid there before her marriage, when she set up her shop. When her husband ran away with a girl from the next village, she implored the rich family for help, and they agreed to give work to her sons when they were old enough.

Now, she directs Chester around the back of the house and knocks on the back door. A dark-skinned boy about Will’s age answers, and looks at her with some annoyance.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m William’s mother.”

“Oh,” Lucas says, folding his arms. “Then perhaps you know where he is.” Joyce freezes.

“What?”

“Sir Michael gave him last night off work, but he never showed up this morning,” says Lucas crossly. “Now I have to look after Sir Michael, as if I don’t have enough to do. Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Joyce says, her voice cracking slightly. “He didn’t come home last night, that’s why I came up here.” For the first time, the irritation fades from Lucas’ face and he looks concerned.

“Come in for a moment.” He steps aside to let her in and marches to the kitchen. “Mrs Patterson?”

“What is it, Lucas?” the middle-aged cook sighs, not looking up from the pastry she’s folding.

“Did you see William before he left last night?” She looks up and gives him a withering look.

“Do you not think I’m too busy to know the comings and goings of an absentee page?” She turns back to her pastry and Lucas rolls his eyes.

“I saw him,” says Stephanie, the kitchen maid, in a small voice. “He said good night just after you went upstairs with the fish course.”

“Thank you,” says Lucas, a nasty feeling developing in the pit of his stomach, as he turns back towards Joyce. “I’m sorry, ma’am, it seems he – ”

“I heard,” she interjects. “Thank you for your time, I’ll see myself out.” Without another word, she turns and walks out of the door.

“What was that about?” Stephanie asks. “Is William alright?” Lucas bites his lip.

Two floors above, Lady Nancy stirs and yawns. Light is streaming through a gap in the curtains, shining most inconveniently on her face. She sighs, annoyed: she’d have liked to have slept a little longer. She yawns again as she reaches up to the cord by her bed and pulling gently on it, then props her pillows up and leans back against the headboard, letting herself wake up a little. Two gentle knocks on the bedroom door precede the entrance of Barbara, her lady’s maid.

“Good morning, my lady,” she says politely.

“Good morning.”

“I trust you slept well?” She crosses the room to the windows and pulling the curtains open, flooding the room with light. Nancy blinks, pushes back the eiderdown and stands.

“Well enough, thank you.” She walks to the dressing table and sits down at the table, allowing Barbara to let her hair down, ready for brushing. She looks at her maid and friend in the mirror, and notices she’s looking at her expectantly. “What?” she asks with a gentle laugh.

“He was here, last night, wasn’t he?” Barbara blurts out. “Sir Stephen?”

“He was,” Nancy says with a smile.

“And?” she urges as she runs the brush through Nancy’s hair. Servants’ code of restraint be damned, this was too interesting.

“He was a perfect gentleman,” Nancy says with dignity. “First he saw Father.” Barbara gasps, and Nancy smiles again, enjoying having an audience. “He was with him for some time after dinner, then he came to see me in the library.” Barbara starts twisting Nancy’s hair into an elegant knot, utterly captivated. “He sat me down and said that he couldn’t remember a time where he hadn’t dreamt of this moment.” She’s gazing out of the window, reminiscing on the moment. “He said he didn’t know how he had ever lived without me, and that he never could again.” She looks back at the mirror and catches Barbara’s eye. “Then he bent down on one knee and asked if I would be his wife, and I said yes.” Barbara beams, bouncing on the balls of her feet in excitement.

“My lady, I’m so pleased for you.”

“Thank you, Barb,” Nancy says, using the nickname she only ever uses when feeling particularly emotional. Suddenly a sad expression crosses her confidant’s face. “What is it?”

“I… suppose you’ll be wanting a new lady’s maid for once you’re married.”

“Are you kidding?” Nancy says, propriety momentarily forgotten. “Absolutely not. Mother wants me to, but I would never replace you.” Barbara looks relieved.

“Thank you, my lady. That means a lot to me.” There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Nancy calls, and Lucas steps in.

“Excuse me, Lady Nancy, but Sir Stephen is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Lucas,” she says. “Tell him I’ll arrive presently.”

Lucas bows and exits, before wandering a little way down the corridor. He has little intention of delivering Lady Nancy’s message, as Mike rang a few minutes ago, and is probably wondering why Will hasn’t arrived. He knocks on the door, waits for the summons and enters.

“Lucas?” Mike says, looking sleepy and confused. “Where’s Will?”

“We’re not sure,” Lucas says anxiously. “He never made it home last night. His mother just came looking for him.”

Mike is awake now, and in full action mode. “We must send out a search party; clearly something is wrong.”

“I agree,” says Lucas, “but… I hope you know I mean disrespect by this,” he adds. Mike nods and indicates for him to continue. “I think it highly unlikely that the lord and lady of the manor would organise a full search for a page.” Mike considers this.

“You are probably correct,” he says thoughtfully. “I shall ask Mother and Father. If they refuse, you and I, and Dustin, will go and find him ourselves.”

In the very centre of Kinshaw sits a large stone building. Adjacent to it is a smaller single-room annexe, with iron bars covering the window, and a slate roof. A sign swings gently from the eaves, reading _SHERIFF_ in big, blocky writing. Even from outside, a hammering on the attic room door can be heard.

“Sheriff!” A short, elderly lady is pounding on the door. “Sheriff, you have a client!” Bumbling footsteps can be heard from the ceiling, before the unmistakeable sound of a large person stomping down a set of stairs. The door flies open, and an unshaven man frames the gap, scowling down at her.

“Florence,” says Sheriff Hopper, quietly but gruffly. “What have we talked about?”

“Sheriff,” she replies, undaunted, “Joyce Byers is here to see you.”

“Mornings,” he growls, “are for coffee and contemplation.”

“She says it’s urgent,” Florence answers, not paying him the slightest bit of attention.

“Coffee. And. Contemplation,” he says through gritted teeth.

“Well, you can contemplate all you like on what Mrs Byers has to say,” she snaps. “But the mainland coffee shipment hasn’t arrived in the capital, and won’t for another four days. I suggest you find your tunic and go and see what’s wrong with Mrs Byers.” She stares him down for another few moments, and then he slams the door and stamps back up the stairs. Florence lets out an exasperated sigh and returns to the Sheriff’s office. “He’ll be right with you.”

Half an hour later, the office door swings open and Hopper strolls in. Joyce stands to her feet, her eyes burning. It briefly occurs to the Sheriff that if looks could kill, he would have collapsed on the ground by now.

“I have been here for an hour – ” she starts to say, but he cuts her off.

“I know, and I apologise,” he says, gentler than he has been. “What seems to be the problem?”

“My Will didn’t come last night,” she says, twisting her hands anxiously.

“Does he normally?” Hopper asks, puzzled.

“Well, no,” Joyce admits. “He generally lives up at the big house, but he was supposed to come home to see me last night.”

“Maybe he got held up,” Hopper suggests, and she lifts her eyes to the heavens.

“You think I didn’t think of that?” she says. “I went up there this morning, and they told me he left around seven-thirty.”

“Then he’s probably just playing a little truant,” Hopper says. “Can’t be an easy gig up there.”

“No, not Will,” Joyce says firmly. “He’s not like that. He’s not… he’s not like the other kids.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s sensitive. They were always mean to him before he went up there,” she says, slumping back down into the chair and rubbing her forehead. “Lonnie used to as well. Used to, well, call him…” She hesitates. “Used to say he was queer.”

“Is he?” Hopper asks with interest, but subsides under the glare Joyce gives him. “He’s _missing_, that’s what he is.”

“Alright, Joyce, here’s the thing,” he says, pushing aside the quill and inkpot and leaning forward on the desk. “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, when a child runs away, the child is with a parent or relative.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding. “What about the other time?”

He looks blankly at her. “What?”

“The other time – you said ninety-nine out of a hundred. What about the other time, the one?”

“Joyce – ”

“The _one_, Hopper!”

He sighs. Time for a new tack. “When was the last time you saw Lonnie?” The question clearly throws her.

“Oh, well – about a year ago, I suppose?” She nibbles a thumbnail. “But he is _not_ part of this.”

“Alright,” Hopper says, standing up and putting on his hat. “I’ll send someone over to Inda’Lis to talk to him.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Joyce mutters. “Don’t bother. If anyone goes, it should be me. He’ll talk to me before he talks to you.”

“It’s an option I have to eliminate,” he shrugs. “In the meantime, go home and stay there. He may have just got lost, he could still come back.” She nods and looks away from him. “And try not to worry, I’m sure there’s nothing wrong.” He can tell she’s not entirely convinced.

“Your Majesty?” A nervous-looking attendant approaches the throne and bows. “We’ve finished our sweep of the dungeons.”

“And?” King Brentish stares at the attendant, daring him to give him bad news. Visibly shaking, the page speaks up again.

“We didn’t find the girl,” he stutters, “but we did find something else.”

“What is it?”

“With respect, sire, it might be easier to show you.” A long silence follows, and the king rises from his throne. The attendant’s life flashes before his eyes, but then the king speaks.

“Very well. Conduct me to your findings.” The attendant bows again, before turning and leading the king down into the depths of the castle, to the room where the fateful experiment left a ten-foot crack in the stone wall of the dungeon. Since then, the split has widened, and a greenish substance oozes from the base. “Fascinating,” King Brentish breathes, leaning down to examine it. “It is through here that the Beast must have travelled to our dimension.” The attendant nods.

“Precisely, sire.”

“There has been no sign of the Beast, correct?”

“None, sire.” The attendant pauses. “And the girl?”

Brentish smiles coldly. “She cannot have gone far.”

A small girl glances up at the sign painted on the side of the building in front of her. She has no idea of what it says, of course – a lifetime in captivity leaves little room for learning to read, apparently. A bearded man steps out, throws out a basin of dirty water before going back inside and shutting the door. If someone lives here, they might have food, she reasons, before slipping through the door. Two dozen barrels line the wall to her left. A brown liquid is dripping from one onto the floor. She catches a few drops in her hands and tastes it. _Bad water_, she thinks, grimacing. She passes through an open door, hearing voices from somewhere nearby. Joints of meat, several loaves of bread, and a lump of something yellowish sit on the countertops. She glances around, and seeing no one, tears a piece of bread from the loaf and seizes a slice of the ham. Next, she breaks a piece off the odd yellow brick and tastes it. Her eyebrows flicker up in surprise. _Nice._ She alternates between the bread, the meat and the cheese (not that she knows its name) until she hears a shout from behind her and freezes.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” She grabs the bread and flees, hearing more shouts behind her. “First the Raven, and now this! Get back here!” She barely even makes it out of the kitchen door before a strong hand wraps around her wrist, and she grinds to a halt. “You think you can steal from me, boy?” She looks up into his face, eyes wide with fright, and his expression softens into one of confused concern. “What the hell..?”

Back at the castle, Mike descends the stairs, determined to make his parents see that they need to help Will. They’ll be at breakfast now – his mother will have eaten her breakfast in bed, but she always comes to breakfast for Holly’s daily presentation from the nursery. Holly’s his younger sister. She’s still three, so they don’t see that much of her as she spends most of her days being fawned over by nannies. Mike’s relieved that he doesn’t have to deal with that any more. He started having a tutor instead at the age of about eight, which he much prefers.

Persuasion is a well-practised art form. He enters the dining room, and wishes everyone a good morning in turn, even Nancy (he might as well try and start the day off on the right foot). He then asks about their days, listening intently and smiling pleasantly. He makes a fuss of Holly and only then fetches his breakfast, even though he’s really quite hungry by this point. His father nods approvingly, and Mike takes this as his signal.

“Mother? Father?” They look up at him expectantly. “I’m concerned about something.”

“What is it?” his mother asks, her eyebrows furrowing a little.

“It’s my page, William,” he continues. “I told him he could go and see his mother last night, but apparently he never arrived, nor did he come to work this morning.”

“That’s what happens when you’re too lenient with your servants,” his father intones, and Mike forces himself not to become annoyed.

“But William isn’t like that,” he persists. “I’m worried that something bad has happened to him.”

“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” his mother soothes.

“If he turns up, you should be sure to dismiss him,” his father adds. Mike can feel his ears reddening but tries to remain calm.

“I think we should send out a search party.”

“Absolutely out of the question,” his father interjects, and Mike loses his composure a little.

“Why?”

“We are not organising a search for a truant servant,” Lord Wheeler says firmly. “I don’t want to hear another word about it.” Mike knows that losing his temper entirely will not help his case, so he sits and fumes instead, stabbing viciously at his breakfast.

“Anyway,” Nancy says slowly, “Sir Stephen has invited me out riding today. I can go, I presume?”

“No, I don’t think so,” says Lady Wheeler. Nancy blinks in surprise.

“What? Why not?”

“Your father and I agree that you’ve been spending far too much time together lately,” her mother shrugs. “That’s all.”

“He _is_ my fiancé,” Nancy says slowly.

“That may be,” her father adds, “but it hasn’t been announced yet, and if people see the two of you together, people will talk.”

“This is ridiculous,” Nancy says angrily. “For once, I have a suitor of whom you approve, and whom I actually like, and I’m not even permitted to see him?” Furious, she throws down her napkin and flounces of the room, as the maid tactfully removes her plate and napkin and steps out of the room.

“Nancy, come back,” her mother calls.

“What if I go to look for William?” Mike suggests, taking advantage of the momentary distraction.

“No, Michael,” says Lord Wheeler shortly. “He’s not important enough to take up your valuable time.” At this slight, Mike sees red, shoves his chair back and storms out.

“Michael!” his mother calls after him, standing up. She kisses Holly on the head, nods at the nanny to take her away, and makes to go after Mike. “I hope you’re enjoying your breakfast, dear,” she says to her husband, her voice dripping with malice and irony, and follows Mike out.

Bartender Benjamin surveys the near-skinhead girl sat at one of his tables. He’s given her one of his nicer nightshirts to put over the rags she arrived in, and has sent his patrons home. Fortunately there weren’t many, because at this time of the morning there are only the overnight guests, who have probably already left anyway. He sets down the plate of bread and cheese, and a bowl of soup he made the night before.

“Here you go, kid,” he says doubtfully. She eyes the bowl warily, as if she’s never seen soup before. She dips her finger in, immediately withdrawing it with a gasp and sucking on it. She nibbles on the lump of cheese, eyeing Benjamin with betrayal in her eyes. “It’s supposed to be hot,” he says in disbelief, pointing to the spoon by her left hand. She frowns, but picks it up. “You can eat,” he says, “but you gotta start answering some of my questions, hm?” No response, she just stares at him, chewing on the cheese. “So, what’s your name then?” Silence. “Where are your parents?” Still nothing. “Did they hurt you, is that why you ran away?” By this point, she’s not even looking at him, she’s turned her attention to the soup. As she turns over her hand to dip the spoon in, Benjamin spots some writing on the inside of her wrist. He reaches over to take a closer look, but she drops the spoon and snatches her arm away. “Damsel?” he asks, puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She looks suspiciously at him. “No.”  
“Oh, she speaks,” he says, his eyes lifting in surprise. “What’s Damsel?”

“No.”

“Alright,” he shrugs, and pulls the bowl and plate away. “No answers, no food.”

“Damsel,” she says hurriedly, and he pauses.

“Yeah? What’s it mean?”

She looks carefully at him and points to herself. “Damsel.” _That’s her name,_ he suddenly realises. _Who the hell named her that?_

“Okay,” he says slowly. She looks reproachfully at him. “Oh, right. Sorry.” He passes the food back, and she immediately dips the bread in the soup and bites into it. Concluding that she’s probably not going to tell him anything else, he drums his fingers lightly on the table and stands up to find a quill and some parchment. He has a message to send.

Behind him, Damsel glances up at the open window, knocking gently against the wall as the breeze flows through. She stares fixedly at it, and watches as it closes, and the latch turns, locking it in place.

A few miles away, Lucas glances behind himself before ducking through the hole in the hedge, to find Mike and Dustin already there.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “If Mr Creach notices I’m gone, I’m a dead man.”

“No one has seen Will since last night,” Mike says, “and my mother and father are unwilling to look for him. I fear the situation is worse than we first believed.”

“I agree,” says Dustin gravely. “We should go looking for him.”

“How on earth are we supposed to find him?” Lucas asks, crossing his arms.

“We’ll go tonight,” Mike says determinedly. “We’ll take weapons, and retrace Will’s steps. If something happened to him, there’ll be signs.”

“You never know, we may even find him,” adds Dustin. Lucas frowns, rolling this over in his mind.

“What weapons?”

“I have a sword,” Mike says, an excited glint in his eye. “I am technically a knight, after all, even though I seldom have the chance to prove it.”

“I have a decent-sized staff,” says Dustin, and the corner of Lucas’ mouth twitches. “Oh, grow up, Lucas! Mike, I also have some semi-hypnotic instruments.”

“Lucas, can you shoot?”

“Once split an apple from forty paces,” he says proudly. Mike nods, impressed.

“Then that’s settled. We’ll meet here, nine sharp.” They shake on it and disperse, their thoughts fixed on their quest ahead.

“You enjoying that?” Bartender Benjamin says, glancing over at the counter where Damsel is perched, chewing on a sweetened bun and swinging her legs.

“Yes,” she says, smiling for the first time in several hours and nods. “Smile suits you,” he says, and her expression changes to one of confusion. “You know, smile?” He puts down the dish he’s been scrubbing and gives her a toothy grin to demonstrate, and her lips curve upwards again. Suddenly three sharp raps echo through the _Hawk Inn_, and Damsel jumps, startled. “Hey, relax,” Benjamin says, holding up a hand. “It’s probably some pedlar. I’ll send ‘em away.” He wipes his wet hands on his apron and goes to the door.

Stood there is a middle-aged woman with greying blonde hair set in rigid curls. She’s dressed in finery, and is accompanied by two smartly-dressed footmen.

“I’m very sorry, ma’am, but we’re not open at the – ”

“My name is Lady Constance Frazier,” she interrupts. “I attend the court of King Brentish, to whom you sent an appeal earlier today, did you not?”

“Yes, I did,” he says in surprise. “Do come in.” He steps back and gestures behind him. Damsel listens intently from the kitchen. “My apologies, my lady, I was not expecting anyone before tomorrow, if at all.”

“Think nothing of it,” she says, pursing her lips as she takes in the room. “Now, you mentioned you have a runaway child here?”

“Yes, a little girl,” Benjamin says, “but I haven’t told her you’re coming yet, so if you…” As he turns around, he sees her wielding a small knife. A flash of silver and a sudden, intense agony in the right sight of his jaw, and the world turns black. Damsel, watching from the kitchen door, drops her bun and flees towards the back door of the _Hawk Inn_.

She hears Lady Frazier speak from behind her, her voice cold and remorseless. “Retrieve her.” As she approaches the exit, two more footmen appear. Panicked, Damsel jerks her head to the side and runs past them as they cry out in pain and slump to the floor. She sprints deeper into the woods, the fallen pine needles piercing her bare feet as she runs. Back at the inn, Lady Frazier watches her go, snarls with fury, making sure to step on Bartender Benjamin’s lifeless body on her way out.

Back at the castle, a cloaked figure sneaks through the grounds, treading lightly and slipping between shadows, hood low over his face to protect it from the pouring rain. As he reaches a particular window, he twines his fingers around the ivy which has been starting to wind its way up the castle wall and begins to climb. He slips only twice, until he reaches the second floor. He taps lightly on the window, pulls the hood down and waves with a charming smile. The bedroom’s occupant looks up, startled, before crossing the room and pushing the window open.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Lady Nancy hisses, pulling her visitor in. Sir Stephen straightens up from his tumble across the rug, tugging his tunic down and flashing her a disarming smile. “I’m in my nightdress!”

“All the better! Your parents forbade me to see you,” he says, as though it’s obvious. “I’m… paying a call. Isn’t that what our type of people does?”

“Not at this time of night, Sir Stephen,” Nancy giggles as he leans down to kiss her. “And not when it’s been forbidden!”

“Is it not only more fun if it’s forbidden?” he murmurs. He kisses her once more, and this time, she leans into it, only pulling away at the last moment.

“Steve,” she whispers. “My parents are here…” Sir Stephen looks around.

“That’s peculiar,” he says, with an impish smile. “I don’t see them…” He takes her hand and twirls her as in a dance, making her laugh.

“Steve, I’m supposed to be practising my embroidery,” she insists, nonetheless allowing him to continue dancing her around the room. He spins her out and reaches for the partially embroidered cloth patch on her dressing table.

“What, this?”

“Yes, that,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears and crossing her arms.

“Well, how about this?” Sir Stephen smirks, tossing it to her. She catches it nimbly and examines it for loose threads. “For every tenth stitch, I’ll remove an item of clothing.” She flushes, and glares at him to stop herself from smiling.

“You’re an idiot, Sir Stephen.”

“And you’re beautiful, Lady Nancy,” he says with a grin, pulling her against himself again.

Back in the village, a steady rain is falling, and there are distant rumbles of thunder. _The second time this week,_ Joyce thinks, as she sits alone at home, gazing out of the window, still looking out for Will.

Jonathan has not come back: he’s working overtime up at the castle, to make up for the pay that Will is not receiving. Joyce pleaded with the noble family, but Lady Wheeler’s compromise was not a generous one: if Will returned, he could have his job back, no questions asked, but they refused to continue providing the money he would be earning. Joyce thought this a trifle unfair, but there’s nothing she can do about it.

“Where are you, Will?” she murmurs desperately, and barely has she finished her sentence when a flash of lightning illuminates the night sky. In the blue-white light, she sees Will’s face, his eyes wide with fright, reflected in the glass pane of the window. “Will!” she gasps, twisting her neck to see behind her, but only sees the empty room, lit only by the glow of the stove and the oil lamp on the table. “Will…” Her voice comes out only as a whimper, and she breaks down again, covering her face as the tears pour out from under her hand.

“Dustin, come on!” Lucas calls irritably. “You’ve got the torch, and we may not have long!” Dustin’s trailing behind; for some reason he decided to bring his lute along, and it’s slowing him down considerably.

“It’s not my fault,” he complains. “These are hardly ideal conditions.”

“Boys,” Sir Michael says grimly, holding up a hand. Lucas glares at Dustin. Mike’s drawn his sword, a sure sign that he’s worried.

“Did you hear something?” Lucas asks. He clutches his longbow firmly in his left hand, and reaches over his shoulder to pull an arrow from the quiver with his right. Dustin raises his staff, swallowing hard. A shrub rustles to their right, and Dustin steps forward, holding out their torch, the flame spitting slightly in the rain. Almost immediately a twig snaps to their left. All three spin around, and Dustin nervously holds up the torch, casting yellow-orange light around them. “What the hell..?” Lucas breathes, and Mike just stares. Stood before them, soaked to the skin and blinking in the light of the torch’s flame, is a girl, dressed in rags, with almost no hair.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed! If so, please leave a comment - things you liked, theories, favourite lines, that sort of thing, it really makes my day.
> 
> Alternatively, you can hit me up on Tumblr (@tea-for-one-please) and drop me an ask or a message on there!


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